For 16 years, I’ve kept my mouth shut, barely whispering out of the corners of it to a few trusted people.

The first time I had sex, when I was 16 years old, I was raped by a trusted friend of the family.

The aftermath that ensued was much more damaging and painful than the experience itself. Since that day, I’ve suffered from shock, guilt, stress, and grief. I’ve watched, almost as a spectator, as the internalization of the trauma spilled out of me quietly, poisoning relationships, killing my joy, and ravishing my mind.

Of course, this was Satan’s intent. He’s been a pretty happy camper the last 16 years, I’m sure.

Recently, I started processing the event therapeutically as a 32 year-old woman and examined my…